


The Ink Under My Skin

by todaywasasherlockday (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, I am sorry for this mess, It has a Happy Ending Though, M/M, Tattooed John, Tattooed Sherlock, Tattoos, This ended up being way longer as well, This ended up having way more angst than I had originally planned, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/todaywasasherlockday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and his army friends went out for the evening, John didn't expect to end up in a tattoo parlour, and he certainly didn't expect the instant attraction he'd feel for the tattoo artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Head Canon](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/74291) by anigrrrl2. 



The man behind the counter looked bored. He was sitting on a stool, hunched over the empty space beside the cash register lazily drawing in a sketchbook. From what John could see, he was drawing a skull.

The man had looked up when John and his friends came bursting through the door of the tattoo parlour. His friends had thought that it would be a good idea to get tattoos, and John, who was the designated driver for the evening, grudgingly followed his friends to the tattoo parlour they'd seen earlier that evening.

When the tattoo artist's eyes met John's, he froze immediately. John felt pinned down by the stranger's calculating gaze. John took the opportunity to examine the man in the same manner. He wore a plain black t-shirt that looked about 2 sizes too small, a black toque over unruly black curls (even though it was the middle of summer) and thick black ray-ban glasses. His arms were heavily tattooed, but from that distance John could not decipher what some of the designs were, only that he had what looked like honeycombs wrapped around his left bicep and a skull (much like the one he had been drawing) adorning his right forearm.

John was shaken out of his reverie when the man's gaze shifted to John's friends who were examining some samples on the wall.

"So who's going first?" The man asked the group of guys.

Immediately, Steve stepped forward, "Why not?"

The man nodded, and gestured for Steve to follow him into the back room.

Bill and James started to discuss between them what they wanted and where. John just stared at the door behind which the beautiful tattooed man had just disappeared.

Steve came out in less than 20 minutes, proudly displaying the design of a heart beat that he’d gotten tattooed on the inside of his wrist. The man rang him up.

He still looked bored when he asked “Next?”

Bill stood up immediately, grinning widely.

Bill’s tattoo took even less time, and he came back with a bright red medical cross over his heart.

James was last, and his took the longest. He came back an hour later with a handgun on his hip.

The man turned to John after ringing James up and raised an eyebrow.

John, who up until that point had not thought to get a tattoo, followed the man into the back room.

The back room was small, furnished only with a bench much like the ones found in a doctor’s office and a rolling stool.

“I normally can read what people want, but I’m having a bit of difficult with you so you’ll just have to tell me.” The man said as he gestured for John to sit on the bench while he took the rolling stool.

“How can you possibly know what people want?” John asked, slightly taken aback.

“Easy. Take your friends for example. The first one is afraid of going to Afghanistan that tells me that he is afraid of dying, therefore I knew he’d want something to remind himself that he’s still alive. Second one only joined the army to become a doctor so the red cross made the most sense. Last one was the most difficult, but I figured it out in the end. He joined the army for the thrill and the violence, hence the gun.”

“That’s amazing!”

The man looked slightly startled, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John giggled, and the man soon joined him in his laughing fit.

“What can I get you?” The man asked after they’d calmed down.

His grey eyes unnerved John slightly as they examined his face.

“I dunno, whatever.” John realized that he shouldn’t be putting that much trust into a man he’d just met, but he trusted this man for reasons that escaped him.

The man smiled widely. John thought that he might’ve made a mistake, but was too distracted by how much more beautiful the tattoo artist was when he smiled to say anything.

The man set to work on John’s wrist after methodically running through the preparations.

John was surprised how much it hurt, but he just grit his teeth and bore it.

When the man pulled away from his wrist to examine his work, he grinned proudly before cleaning the area and apply the after care.

John glanced down at his wrist curiously, and there in plain black was the chemical symbol for adrenaline.

When John’s eyes met those of the tattoo artist, he returned the grin, “Thanks mate. It’s perfect.”

The tattoo artist’s smile widened even further.

John hopped down off the bench and made his way back into the front room of the shop. He then noticed that his friends had left.

“Don’t worry, they’ve just gone back to the pub.” The man said as he punched numbers into the cash register.

“How…” John started, but then trailed off. If this man can discern what tattoo someone wants he wouldn’t have any problem figuring that out.

The man just raised an eyebrow amusedly.

John paid less for the tattoo than he was expecting to, but he figured that might’ve had something to do with the fact that he let the tattoo artist decide the design for him.

“I’m John by the way, John Watson.” He said, as he opened the door that lead onto the street.

The man had an amused smile painted across his face as he replied, “Sherlock Holmes.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness of the chapters but it just means you get more of them.

John never thought that he would have a tattoo, but over the next week he found himself inexplicably rubbing the ink on his wrist and smiling as he remembered Sherlock Holmes, the beautiful tattoo artist that seemed much too smart for his job.

John knew that he was going to be deployed soon, so when he made his way back to the tattoo parlour a week and a half later, he didn’t go back to ask out Sherlock. He went back because in a split second decision, he wanted another tattoo.

Sherlock was sitting in the exact same position as he’d been in the last time John had come into the tattoo parlour expect this time he was drawing the word “Veritas” in fancy, swirling script and was wearing a dark purple t-shirt instead of the black one he’d been wearing last week.

When Sherlock looked up, he smiled, “John Watson. I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Hello Mister Holmes.” John replied, moving to stand across the counter from Sherlock.

Sherlock grimaced, “Do not call me Mister Holmes.”

“Sherlock, then?”

“Considering that’s my name, it should do nicely. I’d ask what I can do for you, but I think we both know that the answer is blindly obvious.” Sherlock stood and gestured for John to follow him into the back room.

John followed more eagerly than he had the last time and sat down not on the bench without prompting.

“So what and where?”

“Aren’t you going to guess?” John teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I don’t guess, I deduce. I know you want something that reminds you of your family, but I don’t know precisely what or where.”

“Not just my family, but essentially I want their initials written on my back.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, “John, that’s boring. Give me their initials. I have a better idea.”

John rolled his eyes in response, but did as Sherlock said.

“You’re going to need to take your shirt off.” Sherlock said distractedly as he prepped the tattoo gun.

“I was getting there, you prat.” John teased as he pulled his shirt over his head and lay down on his stomach.

“Just a tip, don’t insult the man who’s about to permanently tattoo something on you.”

This tattoo took longer than the one on John’s wrist, but Sherlock and John chatted amicably throughout the process wherein they discovered they had many shared interests such as chemistry, indie music and cheesy action movies.

In the end John walked away with a tattoo of 5 book spines on his back just above the line of his pants. On each spine there was a different set of initials, one for his mom, his dad, his sister, his best friend from high school and one for Mike Stamford. In short, the 5 people who had changed John’s life in one way or another.

John was sent his orders the next week. He found out that he was going to Afghanistan in a month. He suspected that he was in too deep with the tattoo artist already, but that thought was cemented when he realized the first thing he’d thought when he found out was ‘I need to tell Sherlock.’


	3. Chapter 3

It was three months after John had been deployed that he finally had a chance to go back to England. When he did, he was jumpy. He didn’t have PTSD but he had trouble relaxing. It was because of this that he thought up an idea for a new tattoo. If he was really honest with himself, he also wanted a reason to see Sherlock again.

John was surprised to find a different man sitting behind the counter when he entered the tattoo parlour that day.

The man didn’t have any visible tattoos, but did have stretcher big enough to put a pencil through. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and a plain white shirt.

“Hey mate, what’s up?” He asked when he caught sight of John.

“Umm, I wanted a tattoo done.” John asked haltingly. He didn’t really want the tattoo if Sherlock isn’t the one who inks it into his skin.

“Oh, no problem. Our tattoo artist is just finishing up another client.”

“Right.”

An awkward silence fell upon the room broken only by the faint hum of the tattoo gun from the back room.

“I’m Greg by the way.” The man said, holding his hand out for John to shake.

“John.” He replied, giving Greg’s hand a firm shake.

“So John. This your first tattoo?”

“Nah. I got two already.”

“Oh?” The question was clear in Greg’s voice.

John showed the man his wrist and his lower back.

“Did Sherlock do these ones as well?”

“Yea, how’d you know?”

Greg shrugged, “I can recognize my artist’s work.”

“Oh, you own the place?”

“Yup.” The pride in Greg’s voice was evident.

At that moment, Sherlock and a petite girl came out of the back room.

The moment Sherlock’s eyes landed on John, he turned to Greg, “Lestrade, I’ll get you to ring her up. I’ll start with him.”  
John followed after Sherlock, flashing an apologetic smile to the girl who was clearly mooning over the tattoo artist.

“You do realize that that girl likes you, right?” John asked, sitting on the bench.

“Hmm? Oh, her. I don’t really care.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

“Not my area.”

Inside his head John did a little victory dance, “Oh, you mean… Right.”

Sherlock just smiled, before changing the topic, “How was Afghanistan?”

John smiled bitterly, “I’m never bored.”

“What is it this time?” Sherlock asked, suddenly switching to professional mode.

“This.” John replied, pulling his father’s dog tags out of his pocket and placing them gently in Sherlock’s awaiting palm. His father had died in service when John was 16. He used to always wear his dog tags. Throughout his late teen years, whenever John felt overwhelmed, he would clutch his father’s dog tags. Unfortunately, having joined the army himself, and having his own dog tags, John was no longer allowed to wear them.

“These were your fathers’.” Sherlock said, turning the dog tags over in his hand.

“Yea. They offered me comfort when I was younger, and I’m not allowed to wear them now. So I thought that I’d get them tattooed.”

“John, you never cease to amaze me,” Sherlock said, as he began to trace out a stencil of the tattoo, “Where do you want it?”

“Hipbone.” John’s answer was immediate.

John didn’t enjoy the pain of getting tattooed but he did enjoy the result of the process. He also enjoyed watching the beautiful tattoo artist while he concentrated on John’s skin. Not to mention the conversation that the two men had.

When the tattoo was done, and John was about to leave the tattoo parlour, he steeled himself. He was going to ask out Sherlock.

“Sherlock..” John started, but he quickly lost his courage and instead finished with, “Can I write to you?”

Sherlock smiled, the corner's of his eyes crinkling adorably and John had the feeling that he knew what John was originally going to ask.

“Of course, John. 221b Baker Street.”

John nodded, “Cheers, mate. Thanks for the tattoo.”

John thought he heard Sherlock reply, “Anytime,” but it was probably just wishful thinking on John’s part.

As John trudged along the street heading for the train station, he wished he could ask out Sherlock, but he was leaving soon, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them. Besides, John didn’t have the guts to ask him out anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

~~_This is really weird_ ~~

~~_Hello Sherlock_ ~~

~~_Done any good tattoos lately?_ ~~

John had tried to start his first letter to Sherlock 10 times already, but no matter what he started with, it didn't feel right halfway through the first sentence. He always came off as either too formal or too friendly. He didn't really know Sherlock, even though he felt like he did. He'd only seen him a grand total of 3 times over the span of 4 months, about an 3 hours in total, yet he had the man's art on his skin. He wasn't sure if that allowed him some sort of familiarity with the slender tattoo artist or not, but he felt like it did.

John sighed out loud, but none of the other men in the barracks paid him any mind. He crumpled the paper with 10 struck out attempts at starting his letter on it and shoved it under his pillow.

He found a new sheet and started again,

_Hey Sherlock._

_While trying to write this I've realized that I don't really know you as well as I thought I did. Maybe that makes this whole writing letters thing a dumb idea, but I don't have anyone else to write to._

_You told me once that there wasn't much to know about you, that your work is the most important thing in your life, but I don't think that's true. You're one of the most interesting people I've ever met (and I know a guy over here who can swallow swords).Tell me something about you._   _I want to know everything._

_-John_

 John very nearly crossed out the last sentence, but the knowledge that he could die at any moment gave him the courage enough to send the letter unedited.

It was two week before he got a reply,

_John,_

_I find the notion that you don't know me very well a bit disturbing. You know me better than anyone, my boss and landlady excluded. Please don't pity me. I know you will want to. Don't waste the ink or paper._

_My work is the most important thing in my life. Although I cannot stand when people insist on being boring. Being interesting is not the same thing as having a strange talent, John. Those two things are not synonymous in the slightest._

_Everything? I'm not sure you'd like me all that much if you knew everything, but I will consent to telling you some information about myself._

_1\. I speak French fluently._

_2\. I was homeschooled._

_3\. I have disappointed my entire family with my career choice._

_4\. I do not enjoy any other form of art as much as tattoos._

_5\. I am not easy to like._

_Do with that knowledge what you will._

_-S.H._

_p.s. I know that the letter you sent me was far from your first attempt._


	5. Chapter 5

The letters continued the entire time John was in Afghanistan. John and Sherlock wrote about everything under the sun. Tattoos, favourite foods, books, current events (mostly Sherlock filling John in on whatever it was that he deemed newsworthy so he found out about new tattoo techniques and Sherlock's newest experiments more than anything else), Sherlock even tried to bring up fashion as a topic, but quickly found out that John was hopelessly naive about the topic.

John knew when he joined the army that he wouldn't enjoy Afghanistan all that much. Sure he was never bored, but he didn't enjoy the men coming into his operating room hopelessly wounded. He didn't enjoy having to tell the operating room staff to give up because the man or woman lying on the table was beyond their ability to heal. Whenever someone died on his operating table, he couldn't help but to think of the people who'd known them.

When John came home after 4 months in Afghanistan, he had already decided on another tattoo.

When John entered the tattoo parlour for the forth time in 8 months, Sherlock was sitting in the same position he'd been in when John had first met him. He was drawing a bee in his sketchbook this time.

When he looked up, a wide smile graced his face, "John! You're back!"

John rubbed the back of his neck, he hadn't told Sherlock that he was coming back. For some reason, he'd wanted it to be a surprise, "Yea. I'm on leave for a week."

Sherlock grin widened as he gestured for John to follow him into the back room, clearly understanding why John had come.

Sitting in the same positions they'd occupied 3 times before, they stared at each other for a moment. John was appreciating Sherlock's beauty. He liked to think that Sherlock was doing the same, but he knew that he wasn't anything special, so again, he dismissed those types of thoughts as wishful thinking on his part.

"So what this time?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence before it became too heavy.

"Oh. Ummm," John started to dig in his pocket for the piece of paper that had his tattoo concept on it, "This." He replied, handing the folded paper to Sherlock.

On it was written three words,  _Dulce bellum inexpertis._

Sherlock eyebrows rose as the meaning of the words sunk in, "War is sweet to those who do not know it?"

It was John's turn to be surprised, "I didn't think you'd know what it meant."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Either way. This whole army thing, it's been rough. I mean I was expecting it to be dangerous, but there is so much misery and death. I just..." John trailed off, "Nevermind. This was a dumb idea." He made to snatch the paper out of Sherlock's hand, but the tattoo artist held on to it firmly.

"John, it's not dumb. I understand. Really I do." Sherlock then lifted his shirt to display his hipbone, there in bright red ink lay two lines of writing. 

_But I have promises to keep_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

"Frost?" John asked, surprised.

Adjusting his shirt so that it fell normally again, Sherlock nodded, "I went through a difficult time when I was younger." He said in a small voice.

John wanted to ask so many questions, but he thought better of it. One of the few topics Sherlock would never even approach was his past.

Sherlock's face shifted subtly, and suddenly he was speaking in his normal brash tone again, "Alright. Where do you want it?"

"Oh... Umm above the tags."

"Right, shirt off."

John immediately pulled his shirt over his head. Sherlock stared for a few seconds, an action that John did not miss, but didn't comment on.

As soon as the tattoo was being inked, the strange residual tension of the moment before melted. John and Sherlock chatted amicably throughout the process.

The process was similar to that of the last 3 tattoos, but instead of leaving immediately after the tattoo was finished and paid for, John stayed in the tattoo parlour with Sherlock until it closed. John left the tattoo parlour feeling surprisingly light. After sitting with Sherlock for hours on end, John had almost forgotten Afghanistan and the sense of dread that he felt about having to return in a week. Almost.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was an anomaly in John's life. Most of his friends served with him in Afghanistan, and he wasn't attracted to any of them. John knew that he was bisexual. He'd known since his teenaged years, but none of the guys in Afghanistan were his type. Lately, his type seemed to consist solely of thin, gorgeous, hipster, tattoo artists named Sherlock Holmes. In a lot of ways, John mused, it was really nice to have someone to talk to that wasn't in the same situation as he was. Most of the guy over there wanted to talk about their lovers back home or how much they missed their families. They were less friends and more companion who could relate to your pain and stress.

Sherlock was... well... Sherlock. He didn't ever inquire after how John was or what his situation was like beyond the cursory questions. Maybe because he already knew that John didn't want to talk about those things.

John was dead on his feet after having just finished a 12 hour shift when he thought of something that he should get tattooed when he went back to London. He tried to convince himself that he just wanted the tattoo, and that he wasn't just making up excuses to feel Sherlock's hands on him.

The letters continued. This time, John did tell Sherlock when he was coming back to London. He felt like they'd grown close enough that not doing so would be a betrayal of Sherlock's trust. A silly notion, but he remembered how mad his mother was that one time his father had come home without telling her prior to his arrival. That was the only time John's father had ever slept on the couch.

It had been exactly 12 months since John and Sherlock had met when John entered the tattoo parlour for the fifth time. Sherlock was sitting in his normal position, hunched up over his sketchbook, but this time a tall, blonde man sat next to him, making comments on Sherlock's sketch.

John, who was opening the front door of the tattoo parlour, froze in place when Sherlock laughed at something the man had whispered in his ear.

Sherlock looked up, and smiled at John, "John!"

John managed a small smile, even as his brain was buzzing.  _Who is this guy? Is he Sherlock's boyfriend? What did he say to make Sherlock laugh? Why does he have to be so stupidly handsome. It's not fair. I should be the only one who can make Sherlock laugh like that._ _  
_

"John?" Sherlock repeated, concern colouring his voice. He dropped his pencil which the blonde man immediately picked up and continued sketching.

"Oh, sorry. Hey Sherlock. How've you been?"

"Good. I just finished this amazing tattoo of a ancient family crest." Sherlock replied, beaming with pride.

"Sounds interesting." John replied. The blonde man still hadn't taken any interest in John

"It was amazing. I wish he'd let me take a picture of it so that I could show you. Although a photo wouldn't have done it justice." Sherlock was babbling proudly. John knew that he only got like that when he was talking about interesting tattoos.

"Who's this?" John asked in a tone that he hoped only contained polite interest.

"Oh, John this is Victor. My boyfriend."


	7. Chapter 7

John could hear his heart beat in his ears. He was having an internal freak out. Since when did Sherlock have a boyfriend? And why didn't he know about him? What should he be doing right now? What do you do when the guy that you are in love with suddenly isn't available? Cry? Run away? Neither would be a good option at this point. Smile and bear it seemed like the best idea... Wait did he just admit to himself that he was in love with Sherlock. Shit.

"Hello." He managed. Surprised by how even his voice sounded.

 Victor looked up and smiled stiffly before returning to his sketching.

Sherlock rolled his eyes affectionately at his boyfriend. 

 _BOYFRIEND,_  John's mind screamed at him, _YOU'RE TOO LATE WATSON. THEY'LL PROBABLY GET MARRIED AND ADOPT A BUNCH OF KIDS WHO'LL GROW UP TO BE GORGEOUS AND SUCCESSFUL GENIUSES._

"Don't mind him. He's in the middle of an artistic inspiration high." Sherlock told John.

_Of course he's artistic._

"Come 'round back. I'll give you that tattoo." Sherlock said.

John noticed that Sherlock seemed less abrasive than normal around Victor. It just made John hate him more. How could that blonde twat bring out this side of Sherlock?

He sat down heavily on the bench.

"What do you want John?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't you guess?" John replied, somewhat miserably.

"Not really. I don't know what it is, but you've always been harder for me to read. You're going to have to tell me." Sherlock was prepping the tattoo gun as he spoke.

"Just give me whatever." John replied, not having the courage enough to tell Sherlock what he'd actually come for.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, eyes boring into John, trying to read him.

If Sherlock knew that John had come to get something specific tattooed, he didn't say anything. John had a feeling that Sherlock did know, after all, he was Sherlock. What didn't he know?

"Where do you want it?"

"Bicep." John blurted out at random.

Sherlock gave a curt nod before beginning.

There was no friendly chatting during the process. John was too busy wondering why he ever thought that Sherlock might've felt the same way that he did. Sherlock didn't think his talking would be welcome. John seemed off. He just couldn't figure out why.


	8. Chapter 8

John ended up with a caduceus on his bicep. He loved it. Sherlock's art was as amazing as ever, that much John couldn't deny. Under normal circumstances, he'd have stayed afterwards and chatted with Sherlock. He only got to see him every so often after all, but he couldn't bring himself to sit across from the man he loved while he cuddled up to someone else.

While John was trudging down the street to the train station, he pulled the picture he'd drawn out of his pocket. It was the spine of a big red book with the letters S.H. written on it. He crumpled the paper in his hand before dropping it in the nearest garbage bin. It had been a dumb idea.

When he got home, he collapsed on his bed. If anyone asked, he'd have said that he just stared at the wall mulling everything over. In reality, he cried.

* * *

 Sherlock watched John leave. A part of him wanted to run after the short blonde man. He didn't know why. He was perfectly content with Victor. Victor was nice. Victor was smart. Most of all, Victor liked Sherlock. He'd made that very clear from the beginning.

"Hey babe. Who was that?" Victor asked when Sherlock sat down heavily on the stool next to him.

"A friend." Sherlock replied, his voice sad and small.

Victor made a noncommittal noise before returning all of his attention back to the tattoo concept that he was sketching.

Sherlock lost himself in his musing about why John was so distraught by Victor.

* * *

 John couldn't bring himself to write to Sherlock. He felt betrayed by the man. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd known about Victor beforehand, but he felt like an idiot. Of course Sherlock had a boyfriend, he was beautiful, clever and talented, who wouldn't want to be with him?

John received a letter from Sherlock after 2 weeks of being back in Afghanistan. He didn't open it. He needed to wallow in self pity for awhile. Rationally, he knew that he didn't have any claim over Sherlock. That he wasn't John's to hold, to kiss, to love.

John opened the letter a week later.

_John,_

_I don't really know what to say. I'm sorry that you found out about me that way. It must have come as a shock. Is my being gay really that offensive to you? I thought you were a better man than that. I can't say that I didn't expect you to hate me eventually, but I never thought it would be for this. I thought we were friends. I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone now._

_-Sherlock_

Despite John's hurt feelings, he couldn't let Sherlock think that he was upset or disgusted with him. He also wanted to know why Sherlock thought John would hate him eventually.

_Sherlock,_

_You are an idiot. I was just surprised by the whole you having a boyfriend thing, nothing more. I have ABSOLUTELY no problem with your being gay. It'd be incredibly hypocritical if I did... I'm Bi (just in case you hadn't figured that out). I was just having an off day the last time I came 'round. I'm sorry that I made you think that I hated you or were disgusted by you or whatever it is that you thought._

_Why would you think that I will eventually hate you? I honestly don't think that's possible, no matter what I find out about you._

_We are friends. I don't ever want you to leave me alone. I'd be miserable without you._

_-John_

 


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time since his initial deployment, John was glad that he was in Afghanistan. It gave him a detachment from Sherlock that would allow him to get over the tattoo artist, hopefully.

John had re-read Sherlock's previous letter almost every day since opening it. It seemed strange to him that the man didn't know how amazing he was. It seemed that despite his brash, show-off nature, he was self conscious. John wished that he was in London so that he could try to get Sherlock to open up to him. Which would lead to Sherlock realizing that he wanted John and not Victor... John mentally shook himself, he was supposed to be getting over Sherlock. He needed to stop thinking like that.

There was an emergency one day, which ended with 4 men and women dead and 29 severely injured. He worked for 16 hours straight that day. 22 of the 29 made it. The other 7 did not. It was a bad day.

The only thing that made it better was the letter from Sherlock he found upon returning to his bunk. He was dead on his feet, but he opened it anyway.

_John,_

_I feel a bit dumb now. I'd never pinned you as bisexual. Frankly, I'd assumed you were straight. That's... interesting. You've only ever told me about girls that you fancy._

_Don't be so brash John. You hardly know me._

_Why would you want me in your life, John? I'm a freak. Every one says so. If anything you'd be better off without me._

_-Sherlock_

Suddenly, John needed to be at Sherlock's side. It didn't matter how much seeing Sherlock with Victor would hurt him. He needed to be with Sherlock. He needed to reassure him that he was brilliant and clever and amazing. He also needed to punch everyone who had ever told Sherlock that he was a freak. Instead, he got out a sheet of paper. He was delirious but he managed to write,

**_WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES,_ **

**_DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I DO NOT KNOW YOU._ **

_I KNOW THAT YOU ARE BRASH AND CLEVER AND BRILLIANT. I KNOW THAT YOU DON'T TALK TO YOUR FAMILY BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT YOU'VE DISAPPOINTED THEM. I KNOW THAT YOU ARE A GOOD PERSON DESPITE THE TERRIBLE THINGS OTHER PEOPLE HAVE TOLD YOU. I KNOW THAT IT TAKES YOU AWHILE TO WARM UP TO SOMEONE. I KNOW THAT YOU ARE ONE OF THE BEST PEOPLE I HAVE EVER HAD THE ABSOLUTE JOY OF MEETING. I KNOW THAT YOU'VE NEVER SEEN BOND, THAT YOU LOVE FRANK TURNER AND DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE._

_WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD CALL SOMEONE AS AMAZING AND EXTRAORDINARY AND UTTERLY PERFECT AS YOU A FREAK?_

_I WOULD NOT BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU. I KNOW THAT MUCH FOR SURE. AND SO DO YOU._

_I love you, you silly git._

John only vaguely remembered writing and sending that letter, but it was so surreal to him that he figured it must've been a dream. When he woke up in the morning, Sherlock's letter was slightly crumpled from where he'd slept on top of it. He pulled out a new sheet of paper and wrote another response,

_Sherlock,_

_For a genius you really are an idiot sometimes. I know you. I may not know anything about your past, but why should that matter? You are my friend, and if you want to tell me about your backstory I will gladly listen, and if you don't then I won't push._

_Sherlock, who has called you a freak? And who ever did couldn't be more wrong. You are absolutely amazing._

_I think we both know that I wouldn't be better off without you. You are my best friend._

_-John_

* * *

One week later, Sherlock received two letters from Afghanistan.

One made him smile to himself.

The other turned his entire worldview upside down.


	10. Chapter 10

The more... passionately worded letter that John wrote was a source of inner turmoil for Sherlock over the next day or two. It was obviously written first and in blind fury. Potentially also while slightly delirious.

With the knowledge that John was bisexual, and loved him (people are more honest when exhausted, so he took John for his word). Sherlock finally understood the slightly longer than necessary glances and touches that always seemed to linger for a moment too long.

But, did Sherlock love John? Maybe.

"Dammit. Victor." Sherlock muttered out loud to the skull on his arm, suddenly remembering that he had a boyfriend that he really fancied.

He decided to pretend that the first letter didn't exist. Maybe if he just ignored the problem, it would just go away.

* * *

It took longer for Sherlock to respond than it normally did. John was starting to get anxious when, finally, he got to his bunk after his shift to find a letter sitting on his neatly made bed.

He opened it eagerly,

_John,_

_I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and friendship._

_Everyone that I have met, aside from my family (who are obligated not to do to there familial duties), has called me a freak at some point. Except you._

_I'm not sure why it is that you seem to enjoy my company so much. To everyone else I am show-offish and annoying, for some reason you do not seem to see that in me. I'm not sure if I deserve that._

_-Sherlock_

John smiled sadly at the paper in his hands. He wanted to know what had happened to that man to make him so suspicious and mistrusting. He tuned the paper over in his hands, and there was a single sentence written in Sherlock's handwriting,

_You're my best friend too._

It was as if Sherlock had written it there in hopes that he wouldn't see it, but needed to get it off his chest never the less.

* * *

 

Sherlock had gotten off work early that day. Lestrade wanted to do some cleaning and let Sherlock leave early. As much as Sherlock loved his job, he was looking forward to getting home to catch up on some of his experiments.

His home, 221 Baker Street, apartment B, was owned by a lovely old lady named Mrs. Hudson. She owned the entire building. Four flats in all. She lived in apartment A, Victor lived in apartment C and apartment d, the basement was unoccupied.

Victor had moved in about 6 months ago. After the previous tenant moved out, Sherlock informed him that there was an empty apartment because at the time his boyfriend had been looking for somewhere to live after being kicked out of his previous flat.

Stopping by his own apartment to drop off his things, he decided to go up to see Victor.

The door was open to Victor's flat, a shirt that Sherlock recognized as Victor's lay on the landing, he thought it was strange, but didn't really think much of it. That is until he pushed open the door to find his boyfriend fucking another guy on the couch.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a month after Sherlock found out that his boyfriend was cheating on him, had been cheating on him since the start. He didn't cry. He told himself that it didn't matter. That it just proved that romantic relationships were pointless and doomed to failure.

Mrs Hudson had immediately kicked Victor out. She'd always been fiercely protective of Sherlock. Mrs Hudson was the mother figure Sherlock always wished his birth mother had been. For all he complained about her, she was accepting and loving in a way that his real mother hadn't been while he was growing up.

He came home from work that day to find that Mrs Hudson had brought in his mail. Including a letter from John. He felt a smile tug at his lips. John's letters were a constant source of joy for him. He kept them all in a box under his bed.

Ripping open the letter, he saw John's familiar scrawl.

_Hiya Sherlock,_

_Guess who just got a week of leave for the end of October? THIS GUY (imagine that I'm pointing at my face)._

_I'm actually going to be staying in a hotel this time 'round cuz my lease is up and I don't want to travel all the way up to Scotland to stay with my parents._

_Either way, regarding the whole Harry Potter comment, HAVE YOU EVEN READ THEM?! HMMMMMMM?!?!_

_And finally, I TOLD YOU THAT LOTR WAS AMAZING. WHEN I SEE YOU NEXT I WILL RUB IT IN YOUR FACE._

_-John_

* * *

It was the beginning of October. One year and four months since getting his first tattoo and meeting Sherlock. Four months since he admitted to himself that he was in love with the beautiful tattoo artist. He was excited to be going back to London in 2 weeks, but not so excited to be staying in a hotel. He'd always hated hotels. They were hard to relax in for some reason.

The last letter that Sherlock would be able to send him before his leave solved that problem,

_John,_

_It wasn't a difficult deduction especially considering you told me._

_You'd be more than welcome to stay at my flat for that week. I do not have a spare room but you may crash on my couch._

_I, admittedly, have not read the books, but I have seen the first 3 movies._

_Very well John. In that one regard, you were right and I was wrong._

_See you soon,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. Don't bother declining my offer because you feel as if you are imposing or some other ridiculous nonsense._

John's reply contained little other than an acceptance of the offer and telling Sherlock off for watching the movies before reading the books.


	12. Chapter 12

When John showed up at 221 Baker Street, he was surprised how ordinary it looked from the outside. For some reason, he expected for Sherlock to be living in somewhere as extraordinary as the man himself.

When he knocked on the door, he was startled when an elderly lady opened the door for him.

"Oh, ummm... Hello. I think I might've got the wrong address." John told her awkwardly.

"Oh! You're the lovely soldier fellow that Sherlock always gets letters from! Come in, come in!" The lady tittered and fussed. She seemed to be under the impression that John would catch his death if he stayed out in the, admittedly chilly compared to Afghanistan, October afternoon.

"Er, yea. I'm John." John replied as the lady closed the door behind him.

He held his hand out for the woman to shake, but she batted the hand out of the way and hugged him fiercely, "I'm his landlady. You can call me Mrs Hudson. It's so nice that you're here. He's been in a bad way lately." She whispered conspiratorially after letting John go.

"What do you mean?" He asked, confused.

"It's not my place to say," She said, a twinge of sadness in her voice, "He lives on the second floor." She continued, all hints of the previous ominousness gone.

"Ok?" John climbed the stairs. He heard someone playing the violin.

The door was open on the second floor landing, through the door he saw Sherlock. He was standing with his back facing the window, eyes closed, lost in the music. John was struck by how beautiful Sherlock was. It wasn't a new concept for him, but after 4 months of not seeing him, he'd almost forgotten how accentuated his cheek bones were, how lean and sculpted his body was under his tight t shirt (a light blue this time), how strangely alien (and utterly perfect) his face was, and most of all how amazing the artwork on his arms was.

John stood in the doorway for a few seconds, stunned silent by how unearthly gorgeous he looked framed in the window like he was.

"I didn't know you played the violin." It was the first coherent thing he could think to say besides a variation of 'God you're beautiful. I love you.'

Sherlock immediately stopped playing. His eyes slid open and when they met John's a smile spread across the brunette's face. He set his violin down carefully on the chair before swooping towards John to bring him into a hug.

John inhaled deeply, trying to savour the moment. He smelled like earl grey tea and chemicals. John's head rested against the base his neck while Sherlock's neck was bent at a strange angle to allow for Sherlock to rest his head on top of John's.

A moment later, they broke apart. John almost made a discontented noise before realizing that that'd probably alert Sherlock to his attraction.

"It's good to see you John." Sherlock smiled, before throwing his arms out in a dramatic gesture, "Welcome to Baker Street."


	13. Chapter 13

John insisted that they needed to have a bond movie night. He fell asleep halfway through the second movie. To be fair, he had been travelling all day and he felt strangely safe in Sherlock's home. More safe than he had felt in a long time.

He awoke to the sounds of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson conversing in the kitchen in hushed voices.

Getting up off the couch, John shuffled over, intending to make himself tea. He paused when he heard what Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were talking about.

"Sherlock, dear, is he your new boyfriend?"

"No, Mrs Hudson." Did Sherlock sound disappointed? _Probably just whimsical thinking,_ John thought to himself before cringing,  _Not whimsical. He was a soldier for pete's sake. Nothing he did was whimsical. Hopeful, hopeful thinking._ He corrected. 

_WAIT, did she just say 'NEW boyfriend?'_

"That's good, dear. Not that he's not a lovely man, but you don't need that right now. Not so soon after what happened with Victor." John could hear the pity in Mrs Hudson's voice. The way that she said it made it apparent to John that whatever happened between the two of them was far worse than just a break-up.

Not able to contain himself anymore, "What happened with Victor?" John asked, stepping into the kitchen. 

Mrs Hudson looked flustered, "I'll just let you talk then." She said before making a hasty exit.

In true Sherlock fashion, he said bluntly, "He cheated on me."

"Oh god. I'm sorry." John replied, as much as he was glad that Victor was out of the picture, Sherlock didn't deserve that.

"I don't need your pity, John." Sherlock replied bitterly, turning away and heading to the living room where in sat in the black chair.

John took the one opposite, "And you don't have it. You are my friend, Sherlock. I know how shitty getting cheated on feels. You don't deserve that."

"Don't I?" John could hear the bitterness in his friend's voice. For the life of him he couldn't imagine what had happened to Sherlock to make him believe that he deserved that kind of betrayal.

"No," John said firmly, "No you don't. No one does, but especially not you. You are amazing and clever and deserve only the best things in this world. If Victor can't see that then he's an idiot."

Suddenly, Sherlock was crying, "I tried... I tried so hard to... To make it work... I... I tried to b-be tho-oughtful and... and kind. Why wasn't it enough, John?"

John was speechless, he never thought that he'd see Sherlock cry. He'd always seem so untouchable in person. On paper was were his fears came out. John had never really been good with crying people.

Acting on a whim, he stood up from the chair that he was sitting in and crossed the short distance to were Sherlock had curled up in his own chair, sobbing into the armrest. He picked up the man, holding him with one arm under his legs and the other behind his back and sat down in the now unoccupied chair. Sherlock immediately curled up into his chest and continued sobbing.

"I thought... I... I thought he was... Was different... I thought... That.. I.. I was finally... Enough for someone... Why was I not enough? Why... Why didn't he love me?"

John could feel the damp spots on his skin where Sherlock's tears were soaking through his shirt. A part of John was happy to have Sherlock in his arms, but not like this. Not with Sherlock crying about his bastard of an ex-boyfriend. Sherlock should always be happy, he should never have to experience this. Unsure of what else he could do, he just rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly and told him that he was special and wonderful and any other positive adjective he could think of.

John told Sherlock that he was enough. That he was perfect just the way that he was. Most of all, he told Sherlock that he was loved.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock didn't seem any different when John accompanied him to work the next day. Both because he wanted to get another tattoo and because he wanted to keep Sherlock company.

It should have been tense between them. John had practically declared his love for Sherlock, but if the tattoo artist suspected anything beyond friendly love, he didn't comment on it. Somehow, they fell into an easy conversation.

John was Sherlock's first client of the day. Sitting in the same position he'd sat in last time when he chickened out, John gathered his courage.

"What did you want?" Sherlock asked, doing the prep work.

"I was thinking about getting two today actually. One of your choice and the other," He paused to breathe, "I want another book."

Sherlock nodded, "What initials this time?"

"S.H."

"Me? Why would you want my initials tattooed on you permanently?" Sherlock asked, flustered.

"Because I'm a different person than I would have been had I not met you. That's the prerequisite for the others so why not you?"

"I... Ok. We'll do that one first. Where do you want the second one?"

"The other wrist."

Sherlock nodded before setting to work on John's back. Carefully inking his own initials into his friends' skin. It felt almost like he was claiming him. It wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to, but it wasn't disagreeable.

For the other tattoo, Sherlock decided on something boring. More significant to him that it would be to John.

A four-leaf clover, done in bright green and a blue book with the initials S.H. became a permanent part of John Watson's skin. Despite their relatively simple designs, he was incredibly (and quite illogically) proud of them.

John smiled when he saw the design of the clover on his wrist, "Isn't that a bit boring?" He teased.

Sherlock's brain immediately started to reel as he thought up a list of ways that he could cover it or change it.

"Hey, I was only joking. I love it. I could use some more luck over there." John continued gently after noticing how tense Sherlock had suddenly gotten, "Besides my mum's side of the family are Irish."

An hour or so after John's tattoos were finished, they were sitting at the front counter chatting aimlessly together when the bell above the door chimed signalling someone's entry into the tattoo parlour.

To both Sherlock's and John's surprise, it was Victor.

John felt Sherlock tense beside him.

"Hey babe. I left my sketchbook here. I need it." He said, as if he had the right to.

"I burned it." Sherlock replied through a locked jaw.

"You did what?" Victor said, advancing towards the counter, despite his height he looked like a mad teddy bear. Needless to say, he didn't look particularly threatening, "I'll kill you, you little slut."

Suddenly, John was up and over the counter and advancing on Victor. Before the bastard had even had a chance to react, John punched him in the face as hard as he could. Victor dropped to the ground. He was conscious, but his jaw might've been dislocated. He clutched at it and muttered threats directed at John, despite most likely not being able to carry any of them out.

"You are the scum of the earth." John told the collapsed man, his 'Captain Watson' voice as his army buddies called it immediately shut the man up, "Leave. Now."

Victor scurried out of the building so fast, John was surprised that he didn't leave a dust trail in his wake.

He watched him go, a smug smile plastered across his face, "Hey, Sherlock can you get me some ice please?" He asked calmly, shaking his hand slightly as he turned back to his friend who'd stood up and was staring at John as if he'd just grown another head.

"Oh! Oh right!" Sherlock replied as he snapped out of his daze. He scrambled to get an ice pack together.

Handing it over to John who'd resumed his seat behind the counter, Sherlock mused about how he'd misjudged the amount of anger John possessed. He had it carefully hidden away under t shirts and jeans that didn't fit quite right, a rounded face and a ready smile. It was strange how often John was able to surprise him.


	15. Chapter 15

John and Sherlock spent the week chatting and getting to know each other better.

They learned that they had just enough in common that conversation topics came easily to them, but not so much that they couldn't argue about the merits and drawbacks of certain things. They learned that they worked well together in a domestic environment. John enjoyed cooking and cleaning. Sherlock mostly just provided John with company while, at the same time, he stayed out from underfoot.

John fell even more in love with the tattoo artist.

It was his last day in London. Sherlock and John had chinese takeout. A treat that John had bought them both as a farewell thing and to thank Sherlock for letting him crash on his couch for the last week. They watched old Star Trek episodes with their dinner.

When the food was eaten and the last episode had finished, John summoned the courage he'd been gathering the past week.

"Can I see your tattoos?" He asked, breaking the silence that'd fallen over the flat.

"You already can." Sherlock gestured absent-mindedly to his arms.

"No, I mean all of them. I know you have more than just the honeycomb, skull and frost lines."

Sherlock's gaze turned to pin John down. He looked like he was searching for something in John's face. Whatever it was, he must have found it because he stood slowly and pulled his shirt over his head.

John was momentarily distracted by the pull and shift of Sherlock's muscles under his skin. Then his gaze shifted to the ink that adorned Sherlock's pale flesh. He went to stand in front of the shirtless man so that he could better examine the art tattooed across his skin.

The honeycomb design that John had thought only wrapped about Sherlock's left bicep actually covered his entire shoulder. The skull on Sherlock's right forearm, which John had sometimes caught Sherlock talking to, John had already seen. Had already examined it as thoroughly as brief glances, so as to not arouse the man's suspicions, allowed. He took the time to rub the inked skin gently, taking in the details of it.

On Sherlock's right hipbone lay the two lines of Robert Frost. On his left hipbone was the word 'veritas' in fancy swirling script. The same exact script as John had seen the man sketching the second time he'd gone to the tattoo parlour. Over his heart was a single heartbeat. A violin sat opposite to the heart on his right pec. The center of his chest and stomach was clear. John couldn't resist running his hand gently over the empty canvas.

"Saving room?" John asked.

Sherlock who, up until that point, had been staring at the ground allowing John's investigation, replied quietly, "I haven't found something important enough to put there yet."

"I'm sure you will," John told him gently, "Do you have any on your back?"

Sherlock nodded and turned around. The honeycombs continued on his back, stopping just above his armpit. Just underneath was a line of music.

"What song is this?" John asked, touching the music gently.

"Bach. Sonata Number one."

The rest of his back was empty, apart from a small crown near his waistband.

"They're beautiful." John told him honestly as Sherlock turned to face John. They stared at each other for a long moment. John leaned in slightly, wanting so badly to kiss Sherlock's lips. To feel them pressed against his own.

The moment was broken when Sherlock turned away from John and in a single, fluid motion pulled his shirt back on.

He replied when his shirt was in place, "They're the only part of me that is."


	16. Chapter 16

"Sherlock," John said carefully, "How can you believe that?"

Sherlock just looked confusedly at John, "It's the truth. There is no merit in thinking otherwise."

"Sherlock, you are easily the most gorgeous looking man I have ever met."

Looking him directly in his eyes, Sherlock only saw sincerity.

"I..." He started, before breaking off and abruptly going to his room.

John stood shocked for a few seconds before following Sherlock down the hall to his bedroom door. He tried the handle, it was unlocked.Sherlock was curled up in the corner of the room, with his arms wrapped protectively around himself.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" John asked quietly, sitting down next to his friend.

"I'm not worth you, John. You are so much better than me." Sherlock mumbled as he absentmindedly rubbed the skull inked into his skin.

John put a gentle hand over Sherlock's, "Sherlock, you don't deserve bad things. No one does, no matter what mistakes they made in the past."

"I was a drug addict." The admission was barely above a whisper.

"Sherlock, it's fine. That's worse than most but it doesn't make you less deserving."

"I did.. things. Things that I am not proud of, John."

"Sherlock, you don't have to tell me these things if you don't want to. You don't owe me anything."

"I want to. You need to know before you get in too deep."

 _Too late for that Sherlock._ John said inside his head.

"My parents cut me off once they found out. They had sent me to rehab, but I escaped. I lived on the street for the next year. I didn't have any money or friends and I.. I was addicted. I paid for my drugs in.. unsavoury ways." Sherlock explained his story in a small voice, staring at a spot on the floor. He steadfastly refused to meet John's eye. He didn't want to see his friend's adoration for him fade away.

"Sherlock," John said, and when the brunette's eyes did not leave their spot on the floor he continued, "Sherlock. Look at me."

Finally, Sherlock's eyes shifted. The tattoo artist braced himself against the look of disgust that he would see in John's eyes, but to his surprise he saw only a soft expression gracing his friend's face.

"Sherlock, you made bad decisions. I won't lie to you and say that you were a victim of circumstance and all that bullshit, but I'm not disgusted by you or anything like that. You made mistakes. Really bad ones. Ones that I will not tolerate from you in the future, but you were young. As long as you are clean now, all this does is prove to me that you are stronger than I thought you were."

Sherlock's eyes started to fill with tears, and when one spilt down his cheek, John wiped it away.

Sherlock just stared at this incredibly loyal and exciting and amazing man. He leaned forward slightly, not sure exactly what he meant to do, but he wanted to be closer, to feel John pressed against him. There was a moment in which Sherlock just wanted John so badly. He wanted John with him when he woke up in the morning, when he went to bed at night. He wanted John to bring him tea while he was at work just because he wanted to. He wanted John to kiss him and hold him and replace all the things that he had done with Victor.

"Sherlock?" John prodded gently, breaking Sherlock out of the strange slightly dazed state he had been in.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he was supposed to reply, "I'm clean. I have been for years."

"Good." John smiled brightly before moving away and standing up.

Sherlock nearly whimpered at the loss.

John paused on his way out of the room, and turned around to face Sherlock again, "Sherlock, don't think that this makes me think any less of you." He said as earnestly as he could manage.

Sherlock just nodded, enraptured by the new information that he possessed.

Once John had left and had shut the bedroom door behind him, Sherlock let out a sigh. Entering his mind palace, he evaluated his last interaction with John Watson and drew a conclusion that matched his previous hypothesis. He was in love with Captain John Watson. Shit.


	17. Chapter 17

He wasn't supposed to be in love with John. The two of them as a couple wasn't a possibility. He wasn't good enough for John. Besides, John would be in Afghanistan for the foreseeable future. If he couldn't make a guy who lived a flight of stairs away stay, how could he get someone who is a third of the way across the world to stay interested in him?

Sherlock knew that John loved him. That letter that John clearly didn't remember made that much obvious, but that was months ago, surely John had moved on already. Besides, there was no proof that, when John had said I love you, he didn't mean it in a completely platonic way.

Sherlock decided on his course of action; he would ignore his feelings and hope they go away. He couldn't ask John to be shackled down. Not when he went to Afghanistan to feel free.

* * *

John and Sherlock continued to write letters to each other over the next two months while John was in Afghanistan. John was happy to note that Sherlock seemed better. He was more open about everything that he had ever been in the past. It was a nice change.

Despite John's resolve that it wouldn't be fair to ask out Sherlock because of the distance and the fact that they only get to see each other once every 3 to 4 months, he started to drop hints that he wanted more out of their relationship.

It was the 28th of December when everything went wrong for Captain John Watson.

It was supposed to be a normal parol. Everything seemed normal, then suddenly there was yelling, and scrambling for cover and gunfire.

Suddenly, John's left shoulder felt like it had caught fire. He collapsed from the pain. He couldn't remember if he yelled out or not. All he remember was lying on his back on the sand. He remember the pain, and the burning sand beneath him. He remembered seeing his mum, his dad, his friends from high school, mike and finally Sherlock. He remembered thinking, "I hope he will be okay. Dear God let me live. Let me live so that I can be there for him."

He didn't remember anymore.

He awoke later to a room that was too bright. There was so much pain. Someone was yelling at him to hold on. To keep fighting. To remember the people he loved.

He croaked out, "Sherlock." 

Then the man started yelling at him again, "Think of Sherlock. You need to get through this for him. You need to fight!"

John didn't remember afterwards who told him that he needed to fight for Sherlock. He wished that he did. He wasn't sure if he would have made it otherwise.

* * *

 

Sherlock was starting to worry. It had been a month since John's last letter. It normally took about 2 weeks for John to reply. Did something happen to him? Or did he just decide that Sherlock wasn't worth the trouble anymore? He shook himself mentally, he needed to stop thinking like that. John had his initials permanently tattooed on him, he wouldn't just stop writing to him... Would he?

He gently stroked the irritated skin around his newest tattoo as he worried about his friend who spent his days getting shot at.


	18. Chapter 18

It had been 42 days since John's last letter. It had never taken him that long to reply before. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He couldn't call up Afghanistan and ask about Captain John Watson. He didn't know John's mother's name, nor his sister.

Mycroft was his last option. He would have access to the information that Sherlock needed. He had to know what had happened to John. He needed to know if the man that he loved was alive, and if he was, why he'd stopped sending the letters. It was the 29th of January when he finally decided to screw his pride and ask Mycroft for help.

Pulling on his coat and scarf, he bounded down the stairs. He flung the front door open. Standing on his doorstep, hand poised to knock, was John Watson.

* * *

John smiled tiredly, "Hello Sherlock." The last month of his life had been difficult, otherwise he would have been beaming at the tattoo artist.

"John!" Sherlock replied, throwing himself at the shorter man.

John wanted to hug Sherlock back but the way that Sherlock's arm was draped caused a shock of pain across his shoulder and he hissed in pain and Sherlock immediately drew back.

 _Something is wrong,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

"Come in!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly remembering that John was standing outside and it was a chilly January afternoon.

"Thanks."

Sherlock bounded back up the stairs and took off the outerwear that he'd just put on.

John was slower at climbing the stairs that he had been a few months ago. When John entered the sitting room, Sherlock suddenly noticed the way that John held his left shoulder and the hospital issue cane that he was leaning heavily upon.

"Are you ok?" Sherlock asked, taking John's face in his hands and staring at him intently.

"Just peachy." John replied bitterly.

"Sorry. Dumb question." Sherlock winced, feeling like a kicked dog. He'd never heard that bitterness in John's voice when it was directed at him.

John's face immediately softened, "Hey, it's ok. I didn't mean that. It's just that's all anyone ever asks me anymore." He rushed to reassure the man that he was in love with. He didn't want to see that face, vaguely reminiscent of a dejected child, on his friend at all, and he never wanted to be the cause of it.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, gesturing for John to sit in the chair that Sherlock thought of as 'John's chair' since he'd come to stay during his leave a few months ago.

"I got shot." John replied briskly.

Sherlock expected that much, "And the leg?"

"I don't know, just a limp. They seem to think it's psychosomatic."

Sherlock scoffed, "I could have told you that. So what now? Do you have to go back?" Sherlock asked concerned, now that he realized his feeling for the doctor, he was constantly worried about him while he was over there.

"I can't be of any use to them anymore." John answered sadly, "I have PTSD and a shoulder that will never fully heal. I've been discharged."

"So where are you going to live?" Sherlock asked, concerned that his friend was going to move far away.

"I couldn't bear to be away from London, but I can't really afford it on an army pension. So, I don't know."

In his mind, Sherlock said _You could have the other half of my bed if you'd like._ Instead he said, "The flat upstairs is open."  _  
_

John frowned, "Sherlock, I can't afford a flat in the middle of London." The subtext of _I really wish I could live near you though_ was evident to both of the men.

"Sure, you can. Mrs. Hudson is an old family friend. She'll give you a discount."

"That'd be great actually. Who used to live up there?"

Apparently, Sherlock's scowl was enough for John to figure it out on his own. John winced slightly, not wanting to remind Sherlock of his bastard of an ex-boyfriend.

An hour later, John had the keys to his new flat and was already talking about moving in the next day. Sherlock was thrilled. John was going to be a flight of stairs away and was going to spend his days in relative safety. Now, they had to deal with the tension that hung in the air. The one that John thought he was the only one feeling and the one that Sherlock was afraid to even mention. 


	19. Chapter 19

That night, John slept in Sherlock's bed. It didn't make sense for him to sleep on the couch with his shoulder in the condition that it was in. Besides, Sherlock didn't sleep much anyway. It was 2 a.m. when Sherlock heard yelling coming from his room. Bleary eyed, he stumbled in to find John thrashing on the floor.

Suddenly awake, Sherlock crouched down next to John and grabbed his good shoulder.

"John! Wake up! It's a dream. John. John! You're safe! JOHN."

Suddenly, John sat up, "Sherlock?" He asked confusedly, "Sherlock."

Suddenly, Sherlock had a lapful of sobbing ex-army doctor. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the man and patted him on the back soothingly,

"It's ok. You're safe. It's alright John. You're in London. Just relax. It's ok." Sherlock repeated calming sentences over and over as John cried into his pyjama shirt.

 _It isn't supposed to be like this_ , Sherlock thought to himself, _John is the strong one. He shouldn't be crying. Captain John Watson is like the sun, bright and glowing. He should never have been broken like this._

Eventually, John calmed down and muttered, "Sorry about that."

"It's ok, John. I understand." Sherlock said, helping the man up. 

"It's embarrassing. I was a soldier for fucks sake."

"John. Listen to me. You are incredibly strong and brave, but no one expects you to be 100% after what you've been through." Sherlock told John firmly.

"But.."

Sherlock cut him off, "No. Very few people could have lived through what you did. You are allowed healing time."

John smiled slightly, "Thanks Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled back, "You are going to be fine John. That much I know."

John nodded before lying back down on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock left with his heart sinking, he had been planning to flirt with John and try to figure out if he was in love with Sherlock or not, but he couldn't do that when John was in the condition that he was. It felt like Sherlock was taking advantage of John.

* * *

 

Neither of them mentioned John's nightmares. Even after John had moved in upstairs, Sherlock would come up and calm him down whenever he heard John yelling. It happened almost every night.

* * *

 

The evening after John had unpacked all of his belonging into 221c, he was sat in his chair at Sherlock's nursing a beer.

"I should get a tattoo to commemorate this." He suddenly announced, breaking the amicable silence that they had fallen into.

"Of?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. I just feel like getting a tattoo." John admitted, finishing off his beer, "You get any new since the last time?"

"Yes.. I.. Yes." Sherlock admitted.

"Alright, show me." John asked, leaning forward in his seat.

 Sherlock displayed his right wrist to John. In a simple, elegant script was J.W.

"Me? Why?"

"John. You've changed my life. Besides, it's only fair."

John hummed contentedly.

"I should get a quote tattooed on my shoulder."

Sherlock cocked his head, "It wouldn't be fully healed. It wouldn't be possible."

John threw the pillow that had been behind his back at Sherlock, who promptly caught it.

"I have two shoulders you know."

 


	20. Chapter 20

Normal people didn't get their friend's initials tattooed on themselves, did they? What does that mean? How did he change Sherlock's life? Did Sherlock like him as more than just a friend? God, he hoped so.

* * *

It had been 2 weeks since John had moved into 221c. It had been, without a doubt, the best 2 weeks of Sherlock's life. He loved having someone depend on him as much as he depended on them. Besides, he now got to see the man he was in love with every day, why wouldn't he be happy about that?

That day, Greg showed up at Sherlock's flat.

"Hello?" John said from his chair as the man let himself in.

"Oh hello." Greg responded, "Is Sherlock in?"

Suddenly Sherlock appeared from his bedroom, "Lestrade. What can I do for you?"

"I need your help."

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't doubt it."

"Will you help or not?"

"I suppose. What is it this time?"

"A man. Around 25. Several new tattoos."

Greg handed a few pictures over to Sherlock. In John's interest, he stood and made his way so that he stood behind Sherlock and peered over his shoulder. In the pictures were tattoos, but the colour of the skin that the tattoos were on suggested that the person was dead.

"Hmmm. They're from that place on Waterstone Drive." Sherlock told Greg, "Let Dimmock know. Honestly, Lestrade why didn't you know that?"

When Greg left, John turned to Sherlock, "What was that about?" He asked curiously.

"Tattoos are unique. Every once and awhile the police need a tattoo artist's help when they're out of their depth trying to identify a victim or a suspect. Lestrade's friend just happens to be a DI. I help them out sometimes." Sherlock shrugged.

When John went to sit back down in his chair, he realized that he had been walking without his cane for the last 15 minutes.

John turned back to Sherlock who just grinned like a chesire cat at him.

* * *

 

What John didn't know is that Sherlock was happy because this made Sherlock feel less like he'd be taking advantage of John if he did something about the tension between them.

* * *

 

It was the 21st night of John tenancy in 221c, Sherlock got the final confirmation that he needed to know for certain that John was in love with him.

He woke up in the middle of the night, to hear John yelling. Suddenly wide awake, Sherlock bounded up the stairs to John's flat.

He found John with his legs trapped in his sheet.

Gently, he sat down on the bed beside his friend and coaxed John awake.

He didn't seem to wake up completely though. Instead, he just blearily opened his eyes and sighed, "Sherlock." before grabbing the back of Sherlock's head and bringing it down so that their lips could meet in a chaste kiss. He then fell back into an easy sleep.

A simple gesture in itself, but it sent Sherlock mind whirling. He wanted nothing more than to reattach their lips, but he reign in the impulse and crept back to his flat. He had a lot to think about.

He couldn't help but think that he had taken advantage of his friend.

* * *

John didn't know why he woke up in such a good mood the next morning. He shrugged it off, he must've had a good dream or something.

 


	21. Chapter 21

"I still want to get that tattoo." John said as he and Sherlock were closing up the tattoo parlour after Sherlock's shift three weeks after the kissing incident.

Sherlock had thought about it. It wasn't possible, factoring in surprise and John's speed that Sherlock could have not kissed John. Besides, John was recovering remarkably. His nightmares weren't as violent anymore. He mostly just woke up panting every now and again.

Sherlock knew that John wasn't in the best mental state, but John was taking care of himself. He'd read up on relationships between people with mental illnesses and people without them. They'd unanimously agreed that, if John was the first one to make the move and if Sherlock knew that them dating wouldn't 'fix' John, then Sherlock and John having a relationship would be fine.

So, with this in mind, Sherlock started dropping hints and flirting with John whenever he could.

Sherlock looked at him, all of a sudden snapping back to the present, "Do you know what you want?"

John nodded.

"I can do it for you now if you want." Sherlock said, motioning to the back room.

"Sure." John beams.

Sherlock went first. John took his shirt off as he walked around the counter so that when he entered the back room he could examine Sherlock's reaction. He had been getting subtle vibes off Sherlock the past week or so. This was a relatively easy and risk free way to see if he was reading the situation right.

Sure enough, when Sherlock's eyes landed on John's chest, his eyes dilated. That was the final proof John needed. John smirked to himself as he sat down on the bench. He was going to ask Sherlock out. He was still nervous as hell to ask out the tattoo artist, but at least he knew that Sherlock was attracted to him.

John suddenly realized that Sherlock was staring at the bullet wound. It struck John that Sherlock hadn't seen it before. It made him slightly self-conscious. It made him feel like he was broken.

"You can touch it, if you'd like." John said, breaking the heavy silence.

Sherlock's hand reached up and laid his hand over John's heart before sliding his hand up to the scar. His hand was gentle and hesitant as he explored the puckered skin. Eyes following the path that his hand took.

"I hate that you have this. You shouldn't have to deal with this kind of pain," Sherlock said earnestly, hands gently tracing around to his back to feel the exit wound, "But it shows how strong you are."

John suddenly realized that Sherlock didn't see him as broken. He felt his resolve to ask out Sherlock solidify.

When Sherlock's curiosity was sated he cleared his throat, stepped away and met John's eyes. Sherlock noticed that lust burned in the eyes of his friend, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.

"What do you want?"

John smiled brightly, "'I am looking for someone to share in an adventure' in two lines on my right shoulder in a dark green."

He'd clearly thought about this one more than some of the others.

As soon as the needle was against John's back, their easy conversation came back to them. Sherlock tried not to get distracted by the expanse of John's back under his fingers, he didn't succeed.

Near the end when Sherlock was doing the last minute touch ups on the tattoo, their conversation had deteriorated into a amicable silence.

When Sherlock turned away to get the cleaning solution to apply to John's back, John took a deep breathe,  _now or never_ he said to himself.

Sherlock started to apply the cleaner to John's back.

"Do you want to get a drink after this? Like as a date." John asked as quickly as he could get it out while still being understandable, as he stared at the floor.

Sherlock's hand paused. Sherlock's brain temporarily shut down. John, amazing, sweet, interesting John had just asked him out.

His brain went into auto-pilot, "God, John I thought I was going to have to tattoo you from head to toe before you finally asked me out."

John sat up and stared at Sherlock for a moment before bursting out in laughter. Sherlock dissolved into giggles not long after.

When they'd gotten themselves under control, "So was that a yes?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes. That was a yes."

John leaned in and attached his lips to Sherlocks'. It was everything he'd ever hoped it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end! Yay :) I hope you enjoyed this. I just want to say thanks for all the comments and such because I honestly don't think that this would have been finished without them. Also if you find a typo or anything let me know because I'm really bad at editing my own work.


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